Sad.

My poor boys.

Yesterday I returned home after a day of teaching, a staff meeting and a couple of errands to find a car at the curb that should not have been there, the newspaper still on the driveway after noon and a mailbox full of mail. After a quick check of the family room revealed only an empty chair, I found the man I had called husband for forty-two years still in his bed. He had apparently died during the night.

Although our relationship had deteriorated over the last few years, I never doubted his profound love for our sons or his generosity of spirit to all who called him "Poppa Larry." 
 

This is a heartbreaking time for all of us who knew him. Teacher, mentor, father, friend. I had hoped he would have those 15 more years he had been promised, and that they would be happy years with those who loved him best.

A deep, dark hole in our lives that will never be refilled.